


Nabokov’s Apprentice

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Dark, Knifeplay, M/M, Porn, Slash, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder, Krycek, and the edge of a knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nabokov’s Apprentice

When his hand traces my face, I tremble.

When his lips caress my ear, I shudder in little spasms of delight,  
spasms that are a precursor to that little death I will soon experience.  
Those sharp spears of unspeakable, delightful sensation, they pale  
in comparison to the future.

It’s not even the future, because it’s already happened. Inevitable.  
It’s like the French phrase, vient de, except for it needs to refer to  
the immediate future, not the immediate past. It happens even as I think  
of it.

When my lover’s hand rests on my jacket, one might suppose my heart  
speeds up. It doesn’t. It just gets louder, so we can both hear it  
beating. I swear it beats the syllables of his name.

Al-ex. Al-ex. Tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump. Each syllable ending so  
softly that I can keep the rhythm, over and over. Alex. Alex. Alex.

He laughs at me and says my heart beats louder only because it’s guilty.  
It wants to remind me exactly who is in my arms. That I am guilty, as  
Humbert Humbert was guilty.

Alex, my Lolita. Alex, my man. Oh, my sweet man, with those green eyes,  
pretty eyes. A bad little boy, or am I fooling myself? I know what  
you’ve done. A man with any scruples at all would condemn you to hell  
for eternity– killing my father. Hurting my only friend. He is a  
killer.

And I want him.

My lover’s fingers pry at my buttons, tracing my nipples, tracing  
patterns and spiking desire over and over. Sweetheart devil darling–  
precious dagger, pressed to my heart.

We do not share words any more. All of our words have been bled away,  
sweet nothings, angry accusations, sullen blame. It’s as though we  
believe that maybe we can forget that this is real.

Forget to remember that it’s my hand pulling off the jacket, being oh-so-  
careful with the prosthetic. My poor beautiful boy. My dangerous enemy  
whose mouth and teeth and tongue clash with mine, like an ignorant army  
by night.

Enemy. Lover. Brother. Entwined in his arms, your arms, my lover with  
only one arm, I can’t even just appreciate the sensations, I can’t even  
remember to pull off my own shirt, til his sharp whisper breaks the  
living, earthy silence.

“You wanna do this or not?”

Of course I do. There is no question.

The shirt comes off, so does his, and the tempo increases. Lolita was  
no innocent. Alex is no innocent. Alex is the devil’s minion, the boy  
sent from Hell to tempt me.

Alex is easing us into bed. A bed in an anonymous hotel room, my  
idea and not his. Alex is without inhibition. For all he cares,  
Scully could be sitting next door, watching. And he is beautiful right  
now, naked to the waist, a golden boy, a built and muscular man. My man.

Nymphet. Nymphets are adolescent girls, aren’t they? I don’t care.  
Alex is a nymphet. Sexual, he’s overtly sexual, he’s the kind of thing  
you want to throw against a wall and fuck senseless. I have experienced  
many sorts of lust and desire– the desire to survey the beauty of my  
Scully. My God, she’s beautiful. I adore her. Other desires linger–  
release. Punishment. Self-immolation. Kristen was self-immolation.

But with my nymphet, it’s different; it’s almost all sensation or  
something. Or that may be more of me in denial.

When his tongue laps at my navel, my breathing takes on a gasping,  
dangerous rhythm. He’s pushing me closer to madness; of course, I could  
already be a madman. I may already be a madman.

“Please,” I murmur, threading my hands in his hair. I have to unbutton  
my pants myself. Not that he wouldn’t, but there are practical  
constraints now. My nymphet’s head rises, he looks at me with those  
killer green eyes.

“Me first,” he says. And of course he’s prepared, lube and condoms.  
We have an unspoken thing about that. It was his turn to bring the  
supplies so we could camp out and play.

“Should I help?” I ask archly, going for the buttons of his fly. He’s  
got a magnificent erection, and that only turns me on further.

When my lover’s aroused, he doesn’t fuck around. With his one hand he  
shoves me face down into the bed, yanks down the jeans and the boxers,  
the simple grey cotton boxers. His legs pin me down, I hear him groan  
and fumble at his own jeans.

“Why you first?” I protest into the mattress. His hand traces a path of  
fire down my back, all the way to where back becomes ass. I’m burning  
up. Into ash. Into nothingness.

“Because–” he pauses and comes down on me hard, chest to back. “Because  
I said so.”

The scrambling sounds for lube, condoms, they’re almost amusing. Of  
course, the reality of my situation is a bit frightening. I’m pinned  
down by the man who killed my father, an assassin who’d most likely  
blow my head off if he felt like it. If only.

If only his skin weren’t like molten gold, if only the bite of bead  
stubble against my cheek, my chest, my ass weren’t so invited. If only  
the fire touches of his tongue and fingers didn’t burn so strongly. If  
only every twitch of his muscles didn’t lead me willingly further down  
the madman’s path.

He thrusts. So considerate. Well-lubricated. He knows his business.  
I always liked that about my Alex, my Lolita in black leather and  
jeans. He only fucks up once. Never again.

He thrusts.

My sanity skitters on a straight edge. The world is coming down to  
nothing more than the breathless heat generated by fear and hate and  
pleasure right here. I’m groaning and whimpering and pleading, and  
his one hand snakes around and starts to slide up and down, scratching  
my itch.

So considerate.

He thrusts.

I think I’ll stop breathing for good during one of these sessions just  
out of sheer delight. That Bruckman guy mentioned autoerotic  
asphyxiation, didn’t he? I don’t know. Hypoxia. Don’t knock what works.  
Oh, God, just a little more. I can’t hold my breath much longer.  
I’m close to that edge.

The straight edge is a razor sharpened til it gleams.

I’m going to fall and be sliced in two.

I’m going to fall–

“ALEX!” I scream, as he falls and takes me with him. Where are we going?  
Who knows. Who cares? I come with him, further down the path where  
demons fear to tread and the jaws of hell gleam open like my lover’s  
green eyes.

When my lover kisses me good-bye, it aches like a thousand razors  
slicing into me.

When he pats my ass and zips himself up, it’s like the world shattering.

When he whispers– “same time next week, lover?” I tremble.

This time for a different reason.

A different reason entirely.

END

 


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